False Hope
by Lady Patriot
Summary: A young midshipman is given command of a prize, but runs afoul of a pirate ship while sailing toward Nassau port. The captured Navy crew is taken to Tortuga, where they are placed on trial for crimes against pirates. Thanks to Hildwyn for the plot idea.
1. The Prize

A young midshipman is given command of a prize, but runs afoul of a pirate ship while sailing toward Nassau port. The captured Navy crew is taken to Tortuga, where they are placed on "trial" for crimes against pirates. Original characters for now, but there will be some familiar faces appearing in later chapters.

None of the characters that appeared in the two Pirates of the Caribbean movies are mine, but the property of Disney, et al. No profit is being made off this story. No copyright infringement is intended.

Thanks to Hildwyn for the plot idea. Cheers, Alia.

* * *

It had been almost child's play to overtake the smuggler, when the ship had been spotted just after the forenoon watch had gone below. A tremor of excitement had seized _Dauntless_' crew when the order to beat to quarters had been given. Men dashed to their appointed stations as the marine drummer boy hammered away at his drum. The nimbler sloop attempted to run, but _Dauntless_ had come across her with the wind in the second-rate's favour. After a brief exchange of cannon fire, which ended in the sloop's rudder being handily shot away, the smuggler surrendered and received a boarding party. Seven sailors, three marines, and a midshipman were a fitting prize-crew for a sloop of _Swift_'s size and thus men were assembled to fill out the crew. 

James Slater had nearly wet himself with joy when he was given command of the captured sloop and her prize-crew. It was his first command of any sort. He'd danced in the midshipmen's mess when he'd gone below to gather his boat-cloak and dirk. The other midshipmen had glowered at him, jealous that the youngest midshipman was chosen over the rest of them to sail a prize to the nearest friendly port. Even the normally unflappable Midshipman Quinn had coloured with indignation when the news was announced. Slater was too involved with preparing for his task to care about the other middies' slighted pride, and he went aboard the captured sloop barely an hour after receiving his orders and the requisite materials for successful navigation.

The sailors and marines who made up the prize-crew were already assembled near the larboard midships rail, waiting for the jollyboat to be rowed back across from the sloop. Slater joined them, nodding at their salutes, an amiable smile lighting up his face. He was excited, barely able to contain his eagerness to get aboard the sloop. Colburn the boatswain's mate lifted a bushy eyebrow as the midshipman rocked back and forth on his heels but said nothing. Without a doubt he'd end up in charge of managing the sloop while the young middie helped himself to the smuggler captain's spirits. It had happened before and was too likely to happen again.

"Give way together, lads," Colburn called out as he settled into the jollyboat, at his customary seat by the tiller. He was the last one aboard, having waited until the marines had clambered down the side-ladder with their muskets. The younger sailors might be anxious to get their grubby hands onto whatever treasures were aboard the sloop, but Colburn had long ago found more satisfaction in safely arriving at a safe port with a prize ship and receiving the bounty that was due him. Besides, he was getting just a tad too old to enjoy the same things as the younger sailors.

Mister Slater fairly sprang up the captured sloop's side-ladder when the jollyboat hooked on, peering about at the main deck with a young man's hungry interest. The sailors and marines were not long in joining him there, but their first concern was not taking in the sight of the messy main deck, but rather the quick rounding up of the sloop's crew. Apparently the smuggler captain had decided it best to attempt tossing overboard as much of his ill-gotten cargo as he could, before the prize-crew came aboard.

"Get 'way from there, you!" Williams snarled, shoving a smuggler back from a crate he was about to heave over the side. The smuggler glared unhappily at Williams but obeyed, taking note of the primed pistol that the able seaman had shoved into his face.

"What d'ya want us t'do with 'em, sir?" Colburn asked Midshipman Slater, eyeing the mess of ropes and cargo littering the deck. It would have to be cleaned up before the crew could make sail.

"Er... gather the lot of them up and get them under guard up forrard. Then get this..." Slater waved his hand at the mess on the deck. "Cleaned up. I'm going aft." So saying, the midshipman hurried toward the smuggler captain's cabin, there to search for the man's maps and charts. Shaking his head, Colburn sucked in a breath and exercised his leather-like lungs.

"Get 'em forrard, Corporal, an' into irons if there's any. The rest o' ya, get this rubbish off the deck. We ain't a-goin' no place with a deck lookin' like the bloody mornin' after!"

Feet scampered over the deck as the seamen hurried to their work. Colburn leaned against the larboard rail and watched the three marines shoving and cursing the smuggler crew toward the foc's'le, using their musket butts once or twice when a man curled his lip too much. A grin came onto the boatswain's mate's face. He generally ignored the marines, but their manner of doing business was one he agreed with.

"Nearly cleared away, Colburn," Williams called out, coiling a rope around a belaying pin and tying the end off smartly. The other seamen were lugging the last of the crates and barrels below. Williams' mate Donahue paused after re-emerging on deck to peer up into the rigging.

"Looks half a mess up there, don't it?"

Colburn shaded his eyes against the sun as he looked skyward and saw that the carpenter's mate was correct. The smuggler crew were sloppy at keeping their sails and yards in order, apparently. _Bloody wonderful._ Another delay to their getting under way. "Robbins, Taylor, an' Byrne, get aloft an' take in that topsail proper. Donahue, do what ya can fer the rudder. Ya other two, get on those halyards an' sort 'em out. We'll get this bloody ship sail-worthy 'fore dusk, or ain't none o' ya gettin' yer share o' the prize money!"

Slater heard the calls and the activity from the smuggler captain's cabin, but he hardly paid the noise any mind. His attention was absorbed with attempting to discern the scratchings that covered the only map he was able to find. The sloop's captain was a careless navigator, it seemed. Sighing, Slater unrolled the map he had brought with him and set about the task of working out a course to the nearest port.

"Steady now, lads, this sloop ain't as steady as ol' _Dauntless_! Heave those lines tight an' lash 'em down proper. You there, Donahue, quit yer lolly-gaggin' an' put yer hands to some work!"

Colburn's voice rang out loudly, as audible as if he were standing in the cabin with Slater. Feet thumped over the deck above his head as the sailors bent their backs to their tasks, struggling to wrestle the wayward ropes into submission. It was a job for twice the seamen who were aboard, but only ten men had been allowed for the prize-crew. It didn't help that the red-coats were preoccupied with guarding the sloop's original crew on the foc's'le, keeping the sullen-faced men from interfering with the Navy seamen. Slater had heard those commands and knew what was taking place without returning on deck to see. It was common enough procedure, or so he had been told by the older midshipmen.

Another sigh rippled past his lips. It appeared that their only choice of friendly port was Nassau. At least two days' sail from their current position. Marvellous. Slater re-plotted their course, just to be sure he had worked it out correctly. He had. One of his strong suits was at maps and charts, after all. It wasn't likely he would make an error, not when it was important that his plotting be correct. He picked up his hat. They wouldn't get to Nassau if he remained bent over that bloody map with a quill in his hand.

"Are we ready to sail, Mister Colburn?"

"Aye sir, nearly so. Jus' a last bit o' cleanin' up left. Rudder's been repaired best we can manage. Donahue says it'll hold up 'til we make port."

Slater nodded. "Take the helm, if you please. Our course is due nor'west."

The boatswain's mate paused, both eyebrows drawing together quizzically. "Nor'west, sir? To Nassau?"

"To Nassau, Mister Colburn," Slater replied, not quite able to conceal his surprise that the man had been able to guess their destination. He put it down to the boatswain's mate's experience, rather than his own inability to mask his thoughts, which somehow manifested themselves as expressions upon his youthful face. Colburn knuckled his brow and set about bawling out orders to the crew, sending them scurrying up the shrouds. Canvas rustled noisily as it was cast free from the yardarms, and the sloop tilted slightly as she came around onto her new heading. Slater's chest swelled a fraction as he observed the activity, pleased that, thus far, he had not managed to bungle anything.

Clasping his hands behind his back and striding toward the taffrail, the midshipman scanned the horizon for any sign of _Dauntless_, but the mighty second-rate had long since sailed off in search of other prey. He was on his own.


	2. Not So Swift

The sloop _Swift_ is spotted by a pirate ship.

* * *

"Sail ho!"

Byrne's heavy Scottish dialect made the words difficult to understand, but his out-thrust arm directed curious stares toward a distant blob of white on the horizon. There was a brief thunder of feet across the deck as the crew scampered for the shrouds, going aloft where they could see better what had caught the ordinary seaman's eye. It was a day into their journey toward Nassau port and they had not sighted another ship since taking the sloop. A tremor of eagerness overtook the crew as they pointed at the distant ship, exchanging guesses and wagers as to what sort of vessel it was.

"What's all this about?" Slater demanded, emerging from below deck, where he had been attempting to question the smuggler captain about the man's destination. The surly smuggler had only curled his lip contemptuously at the young midshipman and stubbornly refused to answer any of the lad's queries, despite the occasional hard prompting from the marine sentry's musket butt. It had been a frustratingly useless endeavour and one that had put Slater in a foul mood.

"Ship sighted, sar, just off our aft larboard quarter. Look there, sar," Robbins told him, lifting a hand from the helm to point. "Dunno wot she is, but mebbe she's friendly?"

The midshipman lifted a telescope to his eye, peering in the direction Robbins had indicated. It looked to be another two-master, tacking about to come after _Swift_ even as he watched. Something in his mind gave a warning tingle. Most ships wouldn't alter their course upon catching sight of another ship. His unease grew deeper when he observed the small dark blots of bodies outlined against the white of canvas sails, shaking out every scrap of sail on the other ship. Bloody damn hell. Even as young as he was, he recognised a potential threat when he laid eyes upon it.

"Make sail, everything we've got! Robbins, get us before the wind, much's you can," Slater barked, collapsing the telescope in a sharp movement. At least the men were already aloft. They set about casting loose the sails as Colburn laid his hands on the braces. Two of the three marines appeared on deck, peering only briefly around before hurrying to help Colburn. Slater opened the telescope again and looked toward the pursuing ship. A cold shiver dripped down his spine. The bloody cur had _oars._ They'd be on _Swift_ by afternoon, sure!

"Mister Colburn!"

The boatswain's mate was at his side in an instant, a telescope gripped in his hands. "I seen it, sir. We ain't gonna be able to outrun her if she's got oars and sails out."

"I have little doubt of _that,_ thank you," Slater snapped, irritated that he didn't know what else to do. He glared at the distant but slowly approaching ship and cast about frantically for some sort of plan. The crew would be wondering what he intended to do next, but he had not the slightest idea. Colburn's bewildered gaze was on his back as he turned away. What the devil should he _do?_

"She's got pirate's colours, sar!" The cry came from Byrne, the sharp-eyed lookout. Slater heard Robbins curse as he wheeled about to train his telescope on the distant ship. True enough, an ominously familiar black flag was dancing up the other ship's halyard, fluttering in the breeze as a warning of impending danger.

"What t'do, sir?"

"Um..." the midshipman couldn't bring himself to meet Colburn's querying gaze. Dammit, he was supposed to have an answer for everything! Desperate for a solution, Slater looked about the after deck. There had to be _something_... "Get those colours run up, they're Danish, I believe," he answered with no small measure of relief. It was hardly a good plan, but it was better than nothing. Colburn moved quickly to obey, leaving Slater to ponder what he could do next. The crew remained aloft, their legs dangling on either side of the yardarms, as they held their own private counsel. They would know how to act far better than he, but he couldn't ask for their advice without appearing inept.

An idea struck him suddenly and he hurried below, heading for the brig where the smuggler crew had been locked up. He needed the smug captain. "Open that, get the captain out here," he instructed the marine. The key clanked in the lock and the heavy iron door creaked as the red-coat swung it open. Surprisingly the smuggler captain emerged without prompting. Had he heard the calls from topside?

"Come topside," the midshipman directed, striding off toward the ladder. Colburn was hovering near the helm, engaged in quiet but earnest discussion with Robbins when Slater re-appeared with the smuggler captain in tow. The two sailors stared in surprise at the pair, disbelieving that the midshipman might be so stupid as to allow the smuggler to wander about without being in shackles.

"Vat is problem?" The smuggler rasped, the first discernible English sentence he had uttered since the prize-crew had come aboard.

Slater passed the man his telescope and pointed toward their pursuer. "Look there."

A long moment slipped slowly past as the smuggler peered through the telescope, then he lowered the device and burst out, "Is pirate!"

"Aye. Do you know them?"

"No, no," the smuggler shook his head vehemently, looking almost scared. He lifted his eyes to look at the sails, bellied out in the wind. "Is not good."

"Obviously not," Slater said, striving to sound more sure of himself than he felt. "We're going to fight them off, as we can't hope to outrun them."

"_Madness!_" The smuggler exclaimed, staring at Slater like he'd lost his mind. "You cannot vin!"

The midshipman drew himself up haughtily. "We shall fight them, sir. I daresay well-trained men of His Majesty's Navy can make more than a good showing of themselves against a rabble of pirates!"

"She'll be on us soon, sir." It was Colburn, appearing at Slater's elbow. "I think - "

"Call the men to quarters, if you please, Mister Colburn. As for you... return below and fetch your men. We shall need every hand to man the guns. _Now._" Slater snarled at the smuggler, who scurried toward the ladder. The boatswain's mate had already bounded down to the main deck, using his pipe to summon the crew down from the yards. Pacing on the after deck, Slater struggled to regain control of his racing thoughts. That he had to fight the approaching ship was only too obvious, but he didn't relish the prospect. He only had ten men, not counting the smuggler crew, to set against God only knew how many pirates. Despite his overconfident words, he felt small and terrified. What chance had they of defeating that ship's crew?

"Better arm y'self, sar," the marine corporal said, holding out Slater's dirk and a pistol. "The prisoners're on deck. Scairt like bunnies, they is."

"Yes, thank you, Corporal. To your post, if you please." God it was hard to sound confident and calm. Why didn't the men see through him? The corporal knuckled his brow as he returned to the main deck, joining the woefully undermanned gun divisions. There were six cannons on either side of the deck, but there were only four men manning each one. It was far from adequate. _We're doomed._

A cannonball whistled past, splashing harmlessly into the white curl of wake at _Swift_'s stern, but the meaning was all too clear. They had fallen within shot range of the other ship. Slater swallowed hard and forced himself to say, "Hard a-larboard, Robbins!"

_Swift_ answered immediately, her bow throwing up a respectable wave as she cut about, presenting a broadside to the opposing ship. It would have worked, had _Swift_'s rudder not been damaged. There was a brief moment of silence, then Robbins called out "Steerin' don't answer no more, sar, rudder's done fer!"

"_Fire!_" Slater cried, pursuing the only option he saw available. The larboard battery banged out their pitiful barrage. At least a couple of the shots struck their target, but it wasn't enough. Colburn bellowed out encouragement as the crew scrambled to reload. The pirate ship fired its first salvo, as _Swift_ sailed past on its unchangeable course.

"Git down, lads!" Somebody cried and the men threw themselves to the deck, covering their heads. Slater pushed himself back onto his knees in time to see the enemy ship sweeping around to draw up alongside. They'd be close enough to board within minutes.

"Marines!"

"Let 'em have it, me boyos!" The corporal cried, his shout over-riding Slater's. Three muskets crackled, then there was another boom as _Swift_'s cannons were fired again. Colburn hefted a ramrod and drew in a breath, bellowing out commands at the top of his voice. The crew abandoned the cannons and dashed to gather whatever weapons they could before the pirate vessel was upon them. Colburn's stentorian roar came then, spurring the men to quicker movements.

"Git yer paws on a cutlass or axe, an' to the side wid ya, prepare to repel boarders! _Move it_, damn ya lazy slackers, this's yer ship they're gonna defile! Step smartly now!"

Slater's palms felt clammy as he gripped his dirk, knowing it would hardly be any use against a cutlass. The crew had armed themselves well, with the Navy sailors having thrust pistols into their belts as well. Grappling hooks sailed through the air to clatter onto _Swift_'s deck but were cut free as quickly as the men could put cutlass blades to the ropes. It wasn't enough. Pirates swung across the gap between the two ships and landed with thumps and crashes. Easily a dozen had come aboard and there were more still coming. Slater stared, rooted to the deck where he stood, watching the frenzied battle roiling across the main deck. His crew was horribly outnumbered but they fought anyway, managing to drive back the pirates for a moment, long enough to form a sort of battle line across the deck. What was he supposed to do now?

A dirty hand slammed into his shoulder, knocking him sideways. It was a pirate, leering at him victoriously. He had been spotted as the one in command and now they'd come to kill him. Utterly terrified, Slater did the first thing that came to mind. He lashed out with his dirk, carving a line across the pirate's chest. The man let out a howl and staggered back, allow the midshipman to escape down to the chaos that had taken over the main deck. Johnson the marine corporal spied him, just before a pirate came charging toward the midshipman. A wild yell tearing from his throat, Johnson gave his musket a heave, throwing it at the pirate like a lance. Slater found himself staring in bewildered horror as the pirate toppled, the bayonet-tipped musket impaled in his midriff. My God. This was _sickening!_

"Use yer blade, sar!" Johnson snarled at him, whipping his sword up in a sharp slash that nearly severed a pirate's head from his shoulders. "That's wot it's for!"

There was no point, however, as he quickly discovered. A cutlass blade bit into his leg and he screamed, dropping his dirk and falling to the deck. Johnson buried his sword into the pirate who'd felled the midshipman, but the damage was done. Standing protectively over the downed officer, the corporal shouted, "Drop yer arms, lads, it's lost!"

A cheer went up from the pirates as _Swift_'s defenders pushed off their opponents and threw down their weapons. Colburn lurched over, bleeding freely from a long cut on his cheek. He was not as bad off as Johnson, Slater saw when the boatswain's mate had to help the marine lift the wounded Slater from the deck. "Your arm, Corporal..."

"Just a scratch, sar," Johnson interrupted roughly, looking embarrassed at the midshipman's genuine concern. It was more than just a scratch, as evidenced by the marine's arm hanging uselessly at his side, but Slater thought it wiser not to argue.

"Well well, what have we got here?" A hefty man with two pistols shoved into his belt came pushing through the jubilant crowd of boarders. "A band of foolish Navy sods, eh?"

Slater tried to stand upright, but his injured leg wouldn't allow him. He settled for accepting Colburn's supporting arm. "I am Midshipman James Slater, of His Britannic Majesty's Ship _Dauntless_. We are - "

The large man laid his hand across Slater's face, silencing him. "Oh please, spare me that rubbish. What you are, are my prisoners, and naught more. You would be wise to keep your gob shut, else unpleasant things'll happen."

"Yer a filthy brigand," Colburn muttered, curling his lip. The pirate captain - at least Slater assumed that's what he was - slowly turned his steely gaze to the boatswain's mate.

"You've a poor attitude, it seems. Scutten, bring your hammer."

_God._ Slater knew, somehow, what was about to happen and he attempted to step in front of the boatswain's mate. "Come now, we've surrendered. There are wounded here, of my men and yours. At least allow us to tend our own injured while you take whatever it is you want and be on your way."

To his surprise, the pirate boomed a laugh. "Foolish boy! You think it would be so easy, do you? You have slain pirates, here on this deck and by the gallows. Do you believe I would allow you to sail away with only the loss of your cargo? No. You shall suffer the same fate as those poor souls who met their ends by the noose. Scutten! Break that man's arm."

Colburn released his grip on Slater and planted his fist into Scutten's jaw. "Like hell some blackguard's gonna lay his murderin' hands on me. Gerroffame there!" The boatswain's mate was beset by other pirates before the unconscious Scutten slumped to the deck. Slater grabbed the pistol from his belt, only then remembering that it was there, and clicked the hammer back.

"Let him go." It amazed him how steady his voice was, when he felt on the verge of tears. The pirate captain smiled gravely as he looked down the pistol barrel that hovered an inch from his face. He appeared unafraid, which deepened Slater's own terror. Colburn struggled angrily against the restraining grips of the pirates, snarling dark oaths at them.

"Bold, Midshipman James Slater. Very well. Let that one go, boys." An awful silence came stealing over the deck as the pirates shoved Colburn away from them. The pirate captain waved a hand at Scutten and the hammer laying near the man's hand. "Fordham, up with that hammer. Midshipman James Slater has accepted punishment in that man's stead."

Hands gripped Slater's arms and shoulders, preventing him from moving. The pirate captain took the pistol from the midshipman's fingers and uncocked the weapon. Johnson and Colburn found themselves held back when they tried to spring forward in the boy's defence, forced to watch with furious glares. Slater squeezed his eyes shut as his right arm was pulled straight until his elbow locked. A harsh laugh grated in somebody's throat, half a second before the hard weight of the hammer crashed into his outstretched arm, just above his elbow.

Slater screamed and wilted as the bone gave way under the blow, sagging unsupported to the deck. The punishment having been administered, the pirate captain suddenly seemed more amiable. He swept his gaze over the rest of _Swift_'s crew before looking down at the sobbing midshipman. "Get the lot of them down to the brig and make sure they're locked up. It's a few days' sail to Tortuga, I'd hate for them to be uncomfortable."

Someone scooped Slater up, taking care to avoid jostling his injured arm. A brief scuffle erupted nearby as Johnson resisted the loss of his cutlass, but a muffled cry announced the end of his struggling. Through tear-blurred eyes, Slater saw a pirate holding the marine by his injured arm. He dragged in a ragged breath in preparation to protest such rough treatment but Colburn's rough whisper of "Hush that, sir, it'll do no good," stilled his words in his throat. He realised after a moment that the boatswain's mate was carrying him. Despite the man's care, his arm brushed against something - probably the iron bars of the brig - and he let out a cry of pain. A pirate laughed from somewhere nearby. There was the smack of a fist against flesh and the laughter was cut short, but the gut-wrenching sound of a cutlass hilt impacting bone followed immediately after. One of the marines tumbled headlong into the brig, the side of his head gashed open and bleeding.

Colburn carefully laid the midshipman down and set about working the lad's jacket off. The door to the cage clanged shut and the pirate guard stomped away, leaving the captured crew to sort themselves out. Corporal Johnson knelt by the marine whose head had been nearly bashed in, tending the man as best he could with his one good hand. There were other wounded in the cell with them, and in the other cell across the way, being looked after as best as their mates could manage. What a sorry sight they all were, the midshipman thought, biting his lip until it bled to keep from howling in pain when Colburn tugged the linen shirt sleeve down his broken arm.

"Easy sir, yer arm's gotta be set, else it won't heal proper." Colburn's hands tightened around Slater's arm and for a moment, the midshipman thought he meant to actually saw the limb clean off. The boatswain's mate jerked his hands sharply, causing the bone's broken ends to grate back into place. Slater screamed again, his left hand balling into a fist. He swung blindly at the boatswain's mate, not caring if he struck the man's injured face or not. Colburn endured the weak pummelling until Slater's faltering energy drained fully from him.

"Wasn't so bad, was it, sir?"

The midshipman did not answer, not having the voice to speak. He slumped against the thin layer of dirty straw that lined the cell floor, cradling his arm. Colburn only shook his head and shuffled across the small cell to look after Johnson's injuries. There was nothing for them to do now but wait until they reached Tortuga.


	3. Prisoners

A bit of action in this one. The prisoners and their captors reach Tortuga.

* * *

The marine whose head had been laid open by the cutlass hilt had taken a fever and lay in a ball against the bars of the cell, alternately shivering and sweating. Donahue the carpenter's mate had taken to looking after the man, managing to acquire damp bits of cloth from the abandoned mopping bucket near the cell. The other prisoners tended their wounds as best as they could, using strips torn from Williams' overcoat. They had largely been ignored by their captors, except when their meagre ration of hardtack was brought. Colburn had managed to convince the pirate captain to allow them a tot of rum, which was used to clean the worst wounds. 

Corporal Johnson's arm had been the first to endure a rum-soaked cloth, but the treatment appearing to be working. There was little that could be done for Slater's broken arm, however, except to bind it to his chest. This had been long since done and the midshipman did what he could with his left arm to help tend the other injured. His leg had also been dressed, with his own cravat. The feverish marine was the most ill of them all, and seemed to be going through a cold spell. Johnson and Donahue were kneeling beside the man, draping their coats over him and whispering assurances. Across from them, in the other cell, the smuggler crew sat sullenly, staying carefully separate from the two sailors and one marine locked up with them. Slater was sure they hated him for attempting to fight off the pirates, but he found that he didn't care.

The midshipman shifted fractionally, resting his head against the cold iron bars of the cell. He had little energy to move or speak and settled for silently observing the goings-on around him. Colburn checking the makeshift bandage on Robbins' hand, Johnson holding the feverish marine's head while Donahue dribbled a few drops of rum down the man's throat, Taylor and Byrne conversing quietly. He skimmed his gaze over them impassively, too weary to attempt to reach out to any of them. Almost two days had passed since they had been locked up and he had scarcely been able to sleep. If it wasn't for the constant, throbbing pain in his arm, he supposed it might be easier to close his eyes for longer than ten minutes.

"Mind yer foot, idiot," Johnson snarled at Byrne, when the ordinary seaman accidentally brushed against the corporal's injured arm. Byrne scowled darkly in reply but took care to step more carefully as he returned to his corner of the cell. For the length of a heartbeat, Slater considered clearing his throat in an attempt to speak, but that inclination passed before he had a chance to act upon it. His thin frame sagged back against the bars and he curled his left hand protectively around his broken arm. Colburn had done a surprisingly good job of binding the limb to the midshipman's chest. For that, Slater was grateful.

A strangled cry came from the other side of the cell, drawing startled gazes toward its source. The feverish marine was clawing at the gash on his head, rivers of perspiration streaming down his face. Johnson and Donahue sprang to the man's side, pulling his hands away from the bandage that he was trying to tear off. "Steady, Foley, easy mate easy!" Johnson soothed, kicking away the coats from the marine's body. "Hush now, me boyo, yer gonna be all right."

"Gimme some cloth from that bucket!" Donahue snapped at Byrne, who retrieved the desired item with the speed of a terrified child. The carpenter's mate wrung out the cloth over Foley's face before laying it over the marine's forehead, taking care to cover the cloth with his hand so it could not be knocked aside. Johnson had sunk to his knees and was gently brushing damp strands of hair back from Foley's pale cheeks, as a father might do for an unwell son. Tears of shame pooled in Slater's eyes and he had to look away. He had let these men down, led them so wrong that there was no atoning for it.

A boot scuffed over the deck outside the cell, announcing the arrival of one of the pirates, bearing the prisoners' daily ration of hardtack and rum. "Eat up, y'ungrateful bastards," the dark-skinned man sneered, flinging a handful of biscuit into each cell. The two tankards of rum he placed down more carefully. Even pirates knew the value of drink to sailing men, apparently. In the other cell, Dunne, Williams, and the marine scrambled to claim a whole biscuit each, before the smuggler crew could lay hands on the precious bits of food. A brief scuffle broke out between the men, ending only when Dunne surrendered his biscuit to the smuggler captain. Sullen, the ordinary seaman retreated to a corner of the cell, his stomach rumbling as he watched the smugglers devour their hardtack.

" 'Ere mate, stow that sulkin'," the marine chided, tossing over his biscuit. "I ain't 'ungry."

In the other cell, Colburn handled the distribution of the hardtack in a more equitable manner, making sure each man got half a biscuit. Whatever was left, Slater noted, was carefully wrapped in Foley's cravat and stowed in the marine's cartouche. _Clever_, the midshipman thought, shaking his head at the half-piece of hardtack that Colburn held out to him. "Save it for Foley," he said quietly.

The boatswain's mate looked over at the feverish marine, lying against the bars across the cell with his head cradled in Johnson's lap. Feeling the weight of Colburn's gaze on him, Johnson glanced up and gave an abbreviated shake of his head. A sigh murmured past Colburn's lips. "You gotta eat too, sir."

"How is he?" Slater asked, ignoring the boatswain's mate's comment. His pale blue eyes drifted toward Foley's pale, sweating face and he didn't see the look that passed between Colburn and Johnson.

"He's sleepin' now, sar," was all the marine corporal said in reply.

"C'mon, sir, tuck in. Gotta eat or yer arm ain't gonna heal." Colburn urged, pressing the hardtack into Slater's palm. The boatswain's mate left him then, picking his way carefully to where Johnson sat. Settling himself down opposite the corporal, he accepted the offered strip of linen from Donahue and set about replacing the blood-crusted bandage on Foley's head.

Johnson curled his fingers around the injured marine's chin and crown, holding him steady in case he awoke and tried to resist them. It wasn't likely, given how weak the poor lad was. "He ain't gonna make it to Tortuga," the corporal murmured, wincing at the sight of the gash marring Foley's temple.

"S'the bloody fever," Colburn agreed, scraping the wound with a rum-soaked bit of cloth. Foley shuddered and came awake, flailing instinctively to ward off the source of the stinging pain. Donahue gripped the marine's hands and held them firmly down.

"Shh, mate, easy, take it easy," the able seaman whispered, squeezing Foley's hands reassuringly. Colburn rebound the marine's head as quickly as he could, tossing the soiled bandage through the bars when he was finished. Foley trembled and squeezed his eyes shut, curling up into a ball as much as he could. He was shivering again, another cold spell taking over. Donahue draped Williams' overcoat back over the marine and looked up at Colburn and Johnson, the worried lines creasing his face a mirror of theirs. "Poor lad."

Johnson nodded mutely and Colburn only looked away. Neither of them had the words to express their feelings so they didn't try. A shudder rippled through Slater as he watched the men, hearing their whispers but not understanding the words. Their expressions, however, told him everything. He looked down at the hardtack in his hand, then he flung it away and turned his face toward the bulkhead to weep.

* * *

Cutlasses and primed pistols guided them topside, preventing them from going anywhere but toward the gangplank. Sneering faces were everywhere as their captors revelled in their superiority. Corporal Johnson did his best to hold his temper and kept his gaze directed forward. The still-feverish Foley was cradled in his arms, blessedly unconscious. Johnson had resisted Colburn's attempt to take the injured marine from him, snarling a curse that rocked the boatswain's mate back on his heels. Foley was one of his lads, he was responsible for the fellow's well-being. He'd done everything he could for the marine, going as far as rocking the poor lad when he slipped into delusions. The paternal side of him had taken over, from the instant he'd seen that damned pirate smash his cutlass hilt into Foley's head. Those bastards would regret it heartily if the lad died. 

"Move along, there!"

Ahead of him, Mister Slater stumbled and a pirate was quick to leap forward and deliver the boy a kick to get him moving again. Colburn returned the favour with a heartfelt curse, earning himself a whack to the ribs with a pistol butt. The brief scuffle almost boiled over into a full-out fight, for Williams was drawing back his fist to level the pistol-wielding pirate, but Johnson was in no mood to tolerate a delay. Foley needed to get someplace shaded, and soon. The corporal's injured arm was beginning to ache badly.

"Belay that, sailor! Help Mister Slater along an' let's git to where'er we're bound!"

"It's refreshing to hear a voice of reason amongst fools," the pirate captain remarked, ambling down the gangplank toward them. "Get them moving, Fordham, enough lolling about. How is that lad there, then?"

Johnson glowered at the swarthy pirate's smug face. "He needs a doctor, or he's done fer."

"Pity. There's no doctors on this island. More's the shame, eh?"

"Blackguard," the corporal grumbled as the pirate captain sauntered away, laughing at his words. The procession moved forward again, reaching the street after a minute, where a jeering crowd was beginning to gather. _Bunch of lawless sods, the lot of 'em_, Johnson thought in disgust, as bits of rubbish and stones came sailing through the air at them. It was their uniforms that brought on the derisive shouts and rotten pieces of God-only-knew-what. A soggy hunk of bread splattered against his shoulder and he saw a rock bounce off Williams' temple. He stumbled and would have fallen, if Colburn hadn't grabbed him. Johnson drew up a wad of mucus from the back of his throat and spat at the rock-thrower, grinning when the unpleasant missile struck the bastard square on the nose. He received a hail of rubbish and insults in return, but he endured it with a smirk. It was enough to know he'd gotten them back.

"Keep together, lads," Donahue called out, as the single-file line of prisoners carried on down the street. A quick laugh rang over the jeers, coming from the end of the procession and Johnson heard the thick Scottish accent of Byrne.

"A song, mates, a song! Wot's a walk ter anyplace widout a tune!" The ordinary seaman laughed again, the sound booming and cheerful. Johnson couldn't help thinking the man had gone utterly mad. "Sp'nish Ladies, eh?"

To the corporal's surprise, the sailors gave a cheer and bellowed out the song that the Scotsman had named. Madness, the whole lot of them had fallen into madness. Shaking his head, Johnson held his silence, listening to the lusty voices of the seamen rising ahead of and behind him. No doubt they'd pay for their boldness with blood, but if it helped to buoy their spirits, perhaps it was worth it.

His prediction was proven correct when the pirate captain came rolling through the crowd, his sword drawn. He strode purposefully past Johnson and the others, his sun-beaten face set into an angry mask. There was a crack of metal against bone and abruptly the singing stopped. Johnson sighed. That was another man they'd have to look after. _Foolish bastard._

"Shoot the next man who speaks!" The pirate captain roared.

_Shite._ The marine corporal sucked on his lower lip, a distressed expression floating across his round face. Just let them get to wherever they were bound. His arm was beginning to tremble from Foley's weight. He would drop the poor lad before too much longer.

Thankfully they appeared at the end of their journey. A barn lay before them, its doors guarded by a pair of musket-bearing pirates. Johnson realised with dismay that the muskets had been theirs, for they still bore the familiar white slings and the wooden stocks were well-polished. The prisoners were herded into the dark recesses of the barn, hurried along with curses and pistol butts if they moved a step too slowly. Johnson dropped to his knees as soon as he spied an empty stall with enough straw piled within it, carefully laying Foley down with a grimace of relief.

The pirate captain appeared in the barn's entrance, a sneer on his ugly face. "Make yourselves at home, you'll be here for awhile. Some of you will be, anyway!" Cackling, the man spun on his heel and was gone. Johnson looked about for something to throw after him, but there was nothing. It wouldn't have done any good, for the doors were heaved shut and the barn was cast into darkness. Somebody cursed and there was a clang of something metal against wood.

Johnson sank down into the straw and closed his eyes, listening to the shallow scrape of Foley's breathing. He was glad the man had clung stubbornly to life, but he held no illusions that the Irishman could last the week. His fever had been burning for days and he had scarcely eaten anything of substance. A whimper escaped from the other marine and Johnson felt the tremor as Foley began to stir. Reaching out, he pressed his palm against the man's forehead and sighed. Another cold spell. He shucked off his coatee and tucked it around Foley's torso, then he lay back into the straw. There was nothing more he could do without having light to see by. Hopefully Foley could fight off the fever before it claimed him.

He sighed wearily. It wasn't likely.

* * *

Bare feet slapped over the planks of the dock and up the gangplank and a breathless voice blurted out, "The Navy's 'ere!" 

The declaration spawned a storm of movement as the ship's crew materialised on deck in a near-panic. The Navy was as welcome on Tortuga as the Plague and every man aboard scrambled to get their ship ready to sail. A calmer voice rang out over the deck and stilled the activity, however, and for a moment the ship was silent.

"The.. Navy, you say?"

The pirate sucked in a breath and nodded vigorously. "Aye, Cap'n. Northerup jes' come inter port wid a sloop an' a hull gang o' Navy sailors. They's 'arf done in, some o' 'em." A grin came onto the pirate's face. "Musta bin a rough sail fer 'em, stoopit bastards!"

"That's interesting..." the ship's captain looked toward a ship moored nearby. A thoughtful expression came onto his face and he said nothing more, until the messenger prompted him.

"Wot'll we do 'bout it, Cap'n?"

"You'll stay aboard and guard the ship."

"What're you thinkin', Jack?" It was Gibbs, frowning quizzically at him. Jack Sparrow smiled and started toward the gangplank.

"What any man would be thinking, in this situation."

Gibbs started to nod, then a confused expression come onto his face. "I don't - " he began but Sparrow was already halfway toward the street and out of earshot. The pirate made his way along the winding street in his peculiar gait, pausing here and there to listen to bits of conversation that seemed interesting. What he heard only heightened his curiosity. It seemed that the gossip was centred around the newly-arrived Navy prisoners. Sparrow's mind began forming a plot, as he continued toward the dock where he suspected Northerup's ship to be moored.

"Hold hard, there, you. Where d'you think you're goin'?"

Sparrow waved a hand at the ship, appearing bored. "Just havin' a look round, as it were. Is your captain aboard?"

"Who wants t'know?" The guard eyed Sparrow suspiciously, taking note of the other pirate's sword and pistol, both in plain view.

"Jack Sparrow! Well, if ever there's a surprise visitor a body doesn't care to see, it'd be you." The man he'd come to see was ambling down the dock toward him, his battered hat tipped back on his head to reveal a receding hairline. Sparrow cracked a smile and accepted the pirate captain's out-thrust hand.

"Feeling's mutual."

Northerup barked a laugh. "Always was a wit. What brings you down here, to my humble ship, then?"

"A proposal." Sparrow gestured blithely at the ship. "Could we discuss it aboard? I'm not in the habit of talking business around the lackeys."

"Naturally. Have some drink brought up, Scutten," Northerup instructed, leading the way up the ship's gangplank and aft, to his cabin. Sparrow followed, taking care to look around at the deck. It was well-kept enough and there were men working near the foc's'le. "So, this proposal. Do tell."

Sparrow bobbed his head and pulled out a chair without waiting for an invitation. "Word has come to my ear that there's some Navy sailors on the island."

"And?" Northerup asked, fishing out a long-stemmed pipe from a pocket on his greatcoat. This he filled with pinch of tobacco and lit with a piece of flint. "If you've come to plead their case, you're clearly not the pirate that all the rumours say. A bit soft in old age, Sparrow?"

"Far from it. Word has it they're bad injured, some of them. What's to say they don't find their way back to Port Royal somehow? Some of them, anyway. Enough to let the Commodore himself know where their mates are."

He was given a suspicious look in reply and Northerup puffed on his pipe for a long moment before speaking. "Setting Tortuga up for a raid? Not with my prisoners. Not all of us are susceptible to smooth-talking. That all you came to say, then?"

"Hardly. We're all wanted men here, mostly. Your prisoners are handy proof. Perhaps, a wise man might use them to wrest a pardon or two from the Navy?"

To his surprise, the other pirate laughed. "We are not all fools or scraping for some way to save our necks, Jack Sparrow. Word has come to _me_ that your _Black Pearl_ has been idle of late. To what end? Not that I'm complaining you see, the less you hunt the better the prey is for me, but let's us be honest, shall we? Seems to me that you're spinning another of your famous schemes, that can only end in somebody going to the noose. Oh shut up, the whole bleedin' island's heard of your "miraculous" escape from the Navy's gallows. All well and good, that. Bravo. No pirate crew worth their tar is going to sit idle just 'cause the "great" Jack Sparrow thinks he's got a plan to save us all."

"Ah, but I do. Have a plan, that is. Now see, it does require a certain bit of... cooperation. I'd need one or two of your prisoners for it, as well."

"No. Perhaps you might've convinced that fool Barbossa to play along, but your reputation contradicts your word. No, Sparrow, I think I may do as I please with my prisoners, and you may go to hell."

The conversation was over, apparently. Sparrow rose and pressed his palms together, making a half bow. Without a word he departed the cabin and went directly off the ship, to all appearances retreating in defeat. His mind, however, was forming a plot to obtain some of the Navy prisoners in another manner. Northerup's refusal of his proposal had been hardly surprising, the man was no fool. There was always a way to get what one wanted, however, and Sparrow was particularly adept at finding such a way.

And he'd start by finding out where the prisoners were being kept.

* * *

It was a fine mess they'd gotten into, Colburn decided. He was sprawled in a pile of straw, staring at the gloom and doing his best not to think of the intermittent whimpers coming from the stall across the barn. The increasingly-ill Foley had taken up residence there, tended to by his corporal and the third marine, Smith. None of the other prisoners dared venture near that stall, for fear of being chased away by sharp words and blows. The smuggler crew had separated themselves, laying claim to a pair of stalls at the far end of the barn, which was perfectly fine with Colburn. He was more concerned with the well-being of his sailors. That Scottish idiot Byrne had suffered a good thump on the head for daring to sing on the walk from _Swift_, but he was doing far better than poor Foley. Probably because he was such a thick-headed bastard. 

None of the sailors worried him as much as did Midshipman Slater, however. The lad had withdrawn from the men since they had been thrown into the barn, choosing to slouch in the deeper shadows by the front of the barn, well away from the men he was supposed to be looking after. It was a bad sign but Colburn was at a loss as to how to bring the lad to his senses. He'd been the wrong choice for command of that prize, he was too inexperienced by half. Midshipman Quinn would have been better suited to the task, the boatswain's mate thought. Or even the mouthy Midshipman Evans, little as Colburn cared for that particular young gentleman. As sympathetic as he felt toward Mister Slater, he was still an officer. The men needed to have their spirits rallied by something, needed an officer to look to for guidance. Colburn, for all his seniority and position, couldn't give that to them.

" 'Ey, Colburn." The outline of a man crept out of the darkness to settle onto the straw near him. He recognised the voice as the marine Smith's, and a chill rippled through him. "Corp'ral wants a word."

Colburn didn't ask the reason. He was afraid that he already knew. Heaving himself up, he followed Smith carefully back to the stall where the three marines had claimed. The uneven rasp of Foley's breathing was still present and he sent up a silent prayer of thanks. His fear was unfounded, for the time being, anyway. Corporal Johnson was barely visible across the stall, but Colburn didn't need to see the man to know he was desperate.

"He's slippin' off, quicker'n I can wipe off the sweat from his face. Don't give it more'n another day, at the most," the corporal told him quietly, his voice heavy with weariness and frustration. "He needs a doctor. Bloody hell, mate, I've no soddin' idea what t'do fer him no more. Put yer nose to that gash on his head, it's reekin'. Took an infection, an' bad. An' he's burnin' up hotter'n ever."

There was nothing he could say to that, so he held his silence, gazing instead down at the faint outline of the blessedly unconscious Foley, laying between the three men in a fevered sleep. Johnson heaved a sigh and a crunch of straw signalled that he had slumped down to rest. "Is Mister Slater...?"

Here, Colburn shook his head, exaggerating the motion so the two marines could see it in the darkness. "Not a word from him. This was his first command, y'know." A bitter smile came onto the boatswain's mate's face. "Who'd've figgered that it'd turn out so poorly?"

"S'pure bad luck," Smith agreed. The young marine reached toward Foley and touched his palm to the other marine's forehead. "Sweatin' agin, 'e is. Much's l like the lad, I jes' want 'im to give up."

The other two nodded silently, their own thoughts similar to Smith's. Colburn eased into a sitting position and tried not to sigh. "We gotta git outta here, somehow, mates."

"An' how d'ya propose we manage that?" Johnson asked bitterly. "Wit' a middie who's got a busted arm, a sailor wit' a stove-up head, me wit' me arm, an' no weapons t'speak of? Yer mad."

"Better'n stayin' round here and waitin' fer them pirates to figger how to have us all killed off," Colburn countered. "I got a job aboard _Dauntless_ I'd like to git back to, an' mates too."

"Ain't no different fer us three. God, Colburn, d'ya figger yer the on'y one wantin' outta here? I got lads to look after, same's you. I'd lay down a month's pay that e'ery lad here wants to git home too. We ain't been here a day an' yer already planning escape."

"What better time?" His temper was beginning to rise, stoked by Johnson's apparent lack of interest in finding a way out of their predicament. "Foley ain't gonna make it outta here with us, Johnson. Ain't no sense in plannin' like he will."

The marine made no reply but Colburn hadn't expected him to. It had been something of a low-blow. He needed the corporal's support, however, if he intended to formulate a workable plan of escape. He needed both marines. Nobody else in the barn knew how to manage muskets and pistols half as well as they, or had the skill to use either weapon with any sort of quickness. Shaking his head, the boatswain's mate pushed himself to his feet and returned to his own stall. He'd approach the corporal with his plan again, when there was more daylight filtering through the cracks in the barn walls. For now, he would force himself to sleep.


	4. Bad Luck

Apologies for the absence. Writer's block has been nasty.

* * *

Something was wrong. He sensed it in the stillness of the barn as he awoke from an uneasy sleep, to the now-familiar throb of pain in his arm. There was no movement from any of the stalls in which the men had taken refuge, not even from the one Johnson and Foley occupied. Grimacing as he stretched the muscles of his legs, Slater struggled to rise, succeeding only after nearly losing his balance as his injured leg resisted the exercise. The midshipman steadied himself against a dust-covered harness yoke, letting a pained gasp when he set his weight onto his injured leg. He ground his teeth together and made himself step forward, wobbling drunkenly until he found a sort of balance, with his left arm held out to the side.

He crossed the barn in this fashion, glad for the clinging darkness. It hid his embarrassing manner of walk from the eyes of the men. His thin fingers gripped the beam of the stall partition and he tried not to sag against it, as he peered into the gloom of the stall's interior. That it was occupied was apparent, for he could hear the steady hum of breathing from within. What he did not hear, however, was the sound he desperately wished to hear. There should have been a harsh wheeze of breath as well, punctuating the healthier rhythm of air passing in and out of a man's lungs. He didn't hear that sound and a thrill of fear lanced through him.

"Johnson!" Slater hissed, all but collapsing to his knees at the edge of the straw pile. It was a trial to crawl forward with only one arm, but he managed to drag himself up to the silent lump that lay against the stall wall. Corporal Johnson came awake in an instant, roused by the midshipman's whisper. The marine shifted quickly, reaching out to press his fingers against Foley's forehead. A lump slipped up into Slater's throat as he watched the outline of the corporal in the darkness. The poor lad. He looked away, however, when he heard the strangled rasp that could only be Johnson giving way to his grief.

Slater felt lost. He hadn't known Foley, beyond the man's name and face. Not half as well as Johnson had known the man. What could he do, or say, to let the corporal know that Slater shared a small measure of his loss? The midshipman touched Johnson's shoulder hesitantly, struggling to summon words to express his own feelings.

"Gerroff!" Johnson snarled, flinging the midshipman's hand away. Slater's eyes widened in surprise and hurt, shocked into speechlessness at the corporal's anger. He was prompted to vocalisation, however, when the marine's fist smacked into his cheek and he was knocked onto his back. Unbelievably, Johnson was upon him, swinging blindly with both fists, letting out a howl that was an unsettling blend of words and pure emotion. Slater cried out, attempting to ward off the blows with his left hand.

"Corp'ral, leave 'im be!" Smith was the first man to scramble to separate the two, tackling Johnson to stop the beating. The two marines traded blows for a moment before Smith was able to pin Johnson's arms to his sides. He lay atop the corporal, using his weight to keep the other marine subdued, murmuring calming words into the man's ear.

"He's snapped!" Dunne burst out, helping Colburn drag the sobbing midshipman from the stall. "Gone utterly mad, he's done!"

"Shurrup yer face," Williams growled from nearby, a dripping rag hanging from his hand. "Here, sir, lay this 'cross yer brow."

Slater's face felt like he had fallen into a cook-fire. His cheeks and nose burned with pain and there was a warm trickle oozing down his chin that could only be blood. Tears of pain and confusion scorched over his cheeks, despite the cool weight of the rag that Williams had laid across his eyes and forehead. What had he done that was so terrible, that Johnson should decide to leap upon him so? He couldn't understand it. All he'd wanted was to comfort the man somehow, but his effort had been rewarded with a beating.

" 'Ere, Donahue, 'old 'im fer me," Smith called, his voice somewhat muffled by the rough wool of his coatee. The carpenter's mate went over at once, allowing Smith to rise and brush bits of straw from his coatee and breeches. With a sigh, the marine looked down at the lifeless Foley before stooping to lift the body from the straw. The other prisoners shifted aside to allow the marine and his burden to pass, no one speaking. Slater shrank back from the men, dragging himself toward the shelter of the nearest stall. He cared little what they did, as long as they left him be. The short beating from Johnson had soured his mood and turned his sympathy to bitterness. If that was the reaction he could expect when he attempted to comfort a man, then the Devil could take them all, and gladly.

The marine Smith kicked at the barn door, calling out to the pirate guards who had to be lurking about somewhere outside. " 'Ey gents, 'eave it open, eh? I needs a shovel!"

Surprisingly, the heavy barn doors gave a rattle as the pirate guards rolled them open a few feet, sending blinding sunlight cascading into the barn. Sailors cursed the light, shielding their eyes against it and scattering for the shadows. Smith squinted in the sunlight but didn't shirk away, waiting until his vision adjusted to the brightness. One of the pirates glared at him, holding his musket on the marine. "Whaddaya want, then?"

"Jes' a shovel, an' mebbe a hammer an' coupla nails," Smith answered, glancing down at the slack face of the marine he was holding. "Poor lad needs buryin'."

The two pirates stared at the dead marine for a long minute, then looked at each other. It wasn't a terribly demanding request, but there was always the chance that Smith was planning some sort of escape. Swallowing hard, the marine added, "Look 'ere, mates, it'll be jes' me. Them others ain't gonna come out, not fer a bit, 'less they wants a service. 'Sides, s'bad luck to leave a dead lad lyin' about."

That was his trump card, and it worked. The larger pirate gave a grunt and waved Smith forward. Sailors were notorious for their superstitions. Smith followed the pirate around the barn, to a small, hard-packed dirt yard at the building's aft. Waving a chubby hand, the pirate stepped back to keep a close watch on the marine. Without a word, Smith laid his mate onto the ground and went about the task of finding a shovel. The tool he sought was easy to find, leaning against the back of the barn as it was. Smith chose a spot close to the barn that seemed suitable and began digging.

The sun was gliding toward the western horizon when Smith finished his work. He had long since shed his coatee, and his shirt and waistcoat were damp with sweat. Piles of dirt were all around, the visible results of a long afternoon spent heaving shovel-fuls of earth out of the hole in which he now stood. He leaned on the shovel and wiped his brow with his sleeve, succeeding in smearing sweat-dampened dirt across his face. Smith tossed the shovel out of the hole and pulled himself out as well. The pirate guard was lounging against a nearby tree, his hat pulled down low over his eyes. Blackguard was asleep. Shrugging, Smith turned his back and bent to heft Foley's body. It was difficult to jump back down into the grave without falling over, but he managed to keep his footing.

Foley looked as though he was only sleeping, when Smith crouched to gently fold the marine's hands across his stomach. The Londoner was still for several minutes, unable to fathom that his mate had finally succumbed to that bloody fever. He knew he was staring at the pale features of a man no longer living, but he couldn't reconcile that reality with the cheerfully-smirking face in his memory. Foley had been a lively sort, quick to cut a reel or jig if there was a fiddle playing, and willing to swap watches at a moment's notice. A fair lad and a fine marine. Smith covered his face with his dirty hands. Small wonder Corporal Johnson had leapt to pummel the midshipman. Foley'd gotten hurt when he'd levelled a pirate who had laughed at the officer. A loyal lad, and true, was that Irishman. It was so bloody wrong that his sense of loyalty had cost his life. Smith bowed his head until his forehead was pressed against Foley's, allowing his tears to moisten the other marine's face. He remained motionless until he was out of tears.

Twilight had fallen. A cool breeze was whispering through the few trees scattered around the island, chilling the Londoner when at last he dragged himself out of the grave. The pirate guard was still asleep, amazingly. Smith ignored the man as he set about the unpleasant task of filling in the hole where his mate lay. Each shovel-ful felt heavier than the last, until he could barely lift the shovel. It took a great effort to complete his work and he felt on the verge of collapse when he flung the last bit of earth onto the mound that marked where Foley was buried. Brushing away fresh tears, Smith staggered toward the back of the barn, where a broken-down horse cart lay on its side. He kicked at the boards until several of them splintered and cracked free. These, he wrenched free and tossed aside. It was difficult to see in the semi-darkness but he managed to feel out several nails that were protruding from the old wood. He dug at the bits of metal until his fingers bled, unsuccessfully trying to pry them from where they were rusted into place. There was nothing for it and he gave up, turning his remaining energy to the pile of boards scattered on the ground. He chose two and dragged them to Foley's grave.

The shovel clanged dully as he brought its blade down onto the longer piece of wood, driving it deeper into the ground with each blow. He had managed to fashion the two pieces into a rough cross, paying respect to Foley's steadfast belief in a higher being. Smith himself held no faith and the sequence of events that resulted in Foley's death only strengthened his conviction that a man was better served placing faith in himself and his mates. The final touch to the solemn memorial was Foley's tricorne, which Smith reverently placed atop the makeshift cross. He was sure that some scamp would steal the hat and kick over the cross before long, but for the moment, at least, the two items stood as a token of memory to a lad who wouldn't even be dead but for a spot of bad luck.

One last trip to the broken-down horse cart and he was finished. He retrieved his coatee and crossbelts, reluctantly slipping them back on. He didn't want to leave this spot. There were others still alive, however, who were no doubt planning ways to get off this sodding island and back to Port Royal. He hated to admit it, but the boatswain's mate Colburn was right. They had to get home somehow. "Rouse, mate," Smith said to the pirate guard, who jumped in surprise and rubbed away the sleep from his eyes. Without waiting for the groggy pirate to lead him back to the front of the barn, Smith went off alone, his shoulders sagging. The other pirate eyed him suspiciously when he rounded the corner of the barn unaccompanied, but Smith only shrugged.

" 'E's comin', jes' shakin' off sleep, I reckon," the Londoner told the pirate, setting his shoulder to the heavy barn door. It creaked open enough to allow the marine to squeeze through and the surprised pirate stared as Smith dragged the portal closed again. He could have escaped half a dozen times, but what for? He couldn't go very far without catching someone's notice. Smith made it as far as the stall where Foley had breathed his last before collapsing. He had no interest in making a run for it, anyway.


End file.
